FN-2187 freezes, his skin hot and tight with panic. He feels Ren's gaze on him like a slow walk of carnivorous ants, the sort that crawl from the murk of jungle planets, pluck off flesh, strip living beings to bone in seconds.
He knows that, in that moment, Ren will see whatever is in his mind.
His treachery sits heavy on his tongue, bright as diamond, clear as fresh blood on snow.
His skin is hot, shivering, closing up against the press of his armour and it is this heat -- this fever-fear-flush -- that gives him the idea.
It's madness, but what other avenue does he have?
He thinks of Ren's tallness. He thinks of his strength, of hands that can crush with a flicker of fingers, of a mind powerful enough to hold a blaster bolt mid-flight.
He thinks of those leather-coated hands on his bare, trembling thighs. He thinks of how it would feel to have the Jedi tower over him, holding him in place with a mere thought, touch him in a way he's never been touched before -- how it would feel to be claimed -- and he thinks of teeth and tongue and other things that he doesn't really understand, because Stormtroopers do not exactly have a working knowledge of human sexuality.
He wonders if Ren would want him to touch him there. He imagines his hand -- his bare hand -- coming up, nudging aside the heavy fall of black cloak, finding human skin and --
Ren's gaze is tugged away. Sweat congeals inside FN-2187's helmet. He can't breathe.
The Jedi leaves. No one calls him in for reprogramming. He is not shot on the spot.
But when he's back on the ship, gasping in air, his helmet in his hands and his face shining in the sterile light, Phasma finds him.
"Lord Ren wants you in his quarters," she says. "He says to say," and is that confusion in her voice? "He says to say to leave your helmet off. And that it doesn't matter if you don't know what to do; he does."
Nines doesn't like his nickname.
"I have a designation," he says. "It is FN-2199."
"We need to call you something," says FN-8965 -- everyone knows her as Eighter. "You're not like him," and FN-2187 knows to whom she refers, and his throat starts to close up. "We actually like you," she continues, not knowing -- or perhaps not caring -- that FN-2187 is sitting close enough to hear them.
"The canteen is a place for nutrition," says Nines, primly, "and not idle chit-chat. At least FN-2187 understands this. He will come with me and train, and I will hear no more of this Nines nonsense."
Watching Nines train with his riot baton is somewhat hypnotising: the Stormtrooper wheels it in a series of beautiful, deadly curls; spinning and dancing like some terrible, distant bird.
Afterwards, he takes his helmet off. His hair is red, sticking up in spires and spikes. "I don't care what they say," he says. "I like you."
Touch is forbidden in the bunks. Fraternisation is forbidden.
Technically, this is in the MedBay. It is purely medical in purpose, for to remain in a state of heightened arousal is perilous to the health of adolescent males.
That is Nines' excuse. FN-2187 does not care about rationalisation; he cares about the curl of a bare, callused hand around his cock and warm breath in his ear.
the war hero.
"It is forbidden for a Jedi to have intercourse with his student," says Luke. He sits with his legs folded and his spine straight. Finn knows from experience -- from joining Rey in her training -- that such a position hurts when you maintain it for any length of time.
"Huh," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say.
"You are not sensitive to the Force," says Luke. "You wield a lightsabre with admirable skill, but you will never equal your friend in power."
"Huh," says Finn, again. He's thinking of Rey, her quick hands and quick smile and shoulders, shoulders far too frail to take the burden that destiny lays on them. He wants to be with her, not listening to the half-senile ramblings of --
"You will never be a Jedi," says Luke. "But I hear your thoughts."
A blush climbs across Finn's face, warm and shameful. Yes: he has thoughts. He has thoughts about everyone -- twenty years of Stormtrooper suppression has led to quite the explosion of hunger and want, things he can barely put name to.
Luke offers him his hand. Finn takes it, and lets the other man pull him to his feet.
They are standing very close.
"You will never be a Jedi. You will never be my student. Do you understand?"
"Huh," says Finn.
The kiss tastes of dust and victory and power, and goes on for a long time.
Poe is going to shit himself with envy, Finn thinks, and then stops thinking very much at all.
Han Solo is sucking him off.
Han Solo is sucking him off.
The hero of the resistance, husband of the General, the man who did the Kessel run in twelve -- or was it fourteen? -- parsecs is on his knees, his board palms cupping Finn's hips, his tongue trailing up and down his shaft and Finn is thinking of everything unsexy in an attempt to stop himself spunking on the spot.
(Phasma in a bikini, Phasma in a bikini -- Poe wearing a thong -- oh shit --)
He comes all over Solo's face. The sight is quite possibly the best thing in this universe or any other.
"Right," growls Han -- and Force -- his voice is like gravel mixed with honey sliding off a shovel, Finn could live the rest of his life happy if he just had that voice in his ear, telling him what to do. "My turn," and with that he hoists Finn up, resting his arse against the Falcon's console, pushing his legs up up up until Finn's bent near in half, buttons and triggers biting into his back, and Han pressing hot and huge against him, wrangling his trousers down, pressing one knuckle up against his crack, rubbing around his rim with a calm, firm pressure that has Finn whining. "Ever done this before?" Solo asks, and Finn just about manages to shake his head. He's boneless and quivering; a jellied mess of nerve-endings and raw, primal feeling. "We'll go slow then --" starts Han, and Finn wails --
"No -- no -- just -- I can take it, I swear."
"Needy little thing," says Han, affectionate and rough, and his smile spreads wide. He's still got Finn's come cooling on his face, and it should be gross but it isn't. "Fine. I've got some lube --" and he pats himself down, hands plunging into pockets, pulling out screws and spanners, a clump of Wookie hair tied up in a little bow, a pack of cards, what looks like a rubber duck and -- "Bingo."
He slicks his fingers up and pushes in. Finn makes a shockingly girly sound -- one that he is very glad Poe isn't around to mock him for -- and cants his knees wider, shamelessly drawing Han in. He thrums his heels against the small of Solo's back, an insistent patter of want need now.
"Shit kid, you're tight," Han says, and of course he's got a filthy mouth he's Han fucking Solo and Han fucking Solo is about to fuck Finn and he wants to die right now, because this is clearly the pinnacle of his entire life.
"Gonna make me come just touching you," says Solo. Finn whines. "Gonna make me come just from this, oh Force you feel so good, so tight around my fingers -- I'm gonna split you right open, gonna make you scream, make you limp for days --"
"Stop talking and get inside me."
Han pulls his fingers out and lines his cock up and pushes in and it hurts and goes on forever, one mindless stretch, and then there he is, seated deep, deeper inside Finn that anyone's been ever and Finn's breath catches high into a mewl that builds into an outright scream as Han starts to move. He fucks him with no finesse whatsoever, all driving movement, hard fast greedy shove and it is the best thing Finn's ever felt. It hurts, but in the best possible way, and his vision goes white and hazy and tears start to leak down his face.
Han leans forward, licks them off, hoisting his legs higher.
"I'm gonna come inside you," he promises, "and then I'm gonna show you how to suck me off."
Han does exactly that: buried deep in Finn's arse he comes, and -- an hour or so later -- he has Finn on his knees, teaching him how to deepthroat.
In his quarters, Chewie wishes that Wookie hearing wasn't quite so good.
Neither of them has ever had time for sex.
Rey grey up in a land of hunger, of achingly empty skies and blistering sand. Thirst congealed spit, and people died of old age before their thirties, worn down to the nub by the constant struggle for life.
Finn's adolescence was spent training. Instincts battered down by combat, a human body torn up and rebuilt from the cellular level; he learned how to shoot someone so they stayed down, not how to cradle someone's head as you thrust inside them.
Neither of them really learned how to be people.
But that was alright.
It was never too late to discover new things. And, yes, for at least a month Poe had Finn convinced that in order for a woman to come she had to be facing north; and so every time he and Rey got down to it Finn would try and subtly shift her to point the right way, consulting a compass for maximum accuracy. And, yes, as a burgeoning Jedi Rey still lacked control of her mind-Force-power-thing -- when they first started having sex the entire Resistance would have sweat-drenched sheet-tangling dreams about Finn -- and then no one wanted to meet his eyes, because all of them knew what he looked like naked.
And, yes, when they fucked in the Falcon Chewbacca threatened to castrate Finn with a pair of pliers -- the ship was like a daughter to him, and apparently Finn had violated her -- and Luke gave Finn the most terrifying 'hurt her and I'll hurt you' talk in the history of ever, and there were always going to be problems but that didn't matter.
Finn had Rey. Rey had Finn. That's all they needed.
Jessika brings some kind of awful bootleg booze that's bright blue and smells of the stuff Poe uses to clean his fighter; Snap brings a deck of cards; and within half an hour they are all naked.
"This needs to be on the recruitment posters," he gasps, stuttering out words between whines as Jessika's mouth slides up and down his cock and Snap pushes inside him inch by torturous inch.
"Come to the Resistance, and the Resistance will make you come?" suggests Snap. Jessika hums agreement, and Finn all but cries.
"Defection would treble," he assures them, shortly before losing the ability to speak entirely.
Finn offers to take the lead on the interrogation. It feels right, somehow, that he be the one to sit opposite Captain Phasma and grill her. He's the one she almost had brainwashed. He's the one who knows what makes her tick. There's nothing she can do that will throw him --
Apart from be naked. That would work.
He squawks and flails, his hands rising up as if to ward her off.
She's got tits.
And they are there.
"You might as well get it over with," she says, her voice heavy and -- resigned?
That's not right. She's Phasma. She's terror and battle incarnate, she's the avatar of every goddess dedicated to bloodshed...and here she is. Naked. Her clothes are beside her, folded with military precision: sharp creases, sharp lines.
"Get what over with?"
"We all know what men do with captured women they hate," she says. "I've seen it. I tried to stop it but..." Her great shoulders shrug.
Nausea curdles in Finn's stomach as it dawns on him. He keeps his eyes averted, staring at the ceiling.
"I'm not going to touch you. No one's going to touch you."
"Why else would you keep me alive? Everyone knows what the Resistance does --"
"Whatever they told you was a lie."
"Do you know what I've seen? I've been fighting longer than you've been alive. Don't you dare think that the Resistance is any better than us."
"There's no us," says Finn, "not anymore. And whatever you saw...that's not how we are. The Resistance, that is. Can you, uh. Can you put your clothes on please? I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."
The ceiling really is very interesting. He hears Phasma stand, hears the flutter of fabric as she dresses.
"Are you, uh, are you decent?"
He risks a look. She's in Resistance garb, sandy brown standing out stark against her space-white skin, and it's so different from her armour. She still looks dangerous, but the polish is gone -- feral, that's the word, and his spine quivers to see it.
"Look at you," she says, half-mocking, "the brave F --"
"Don't call me that!" Finn snaps; Phasma flinches; and a great wash of guilt swamps him. He attempts a smile. "Call me Finn. Please."
"Finn," she says, like she's tasting the name, seeing whether or not it's poisonous. "Well, Finn. What now?'
After the First Order falls, after Hux is executed on her testimony, she comes to him again.
She's naked. Again. But this time there is pride in how she holds herself, and her eyes are afire with victory.
She's a goddess, he thinks, and he tells her so as he lies her down in his bunk, kissing the constellations of freckles and scars that dance between her breasts, spilling over her ribcage in a tide. She's beautiful.
When his tongue finds her clit, she cries. Alarmed, he yanks back; her face is silvery with moisture, and her mouth is a strange soft shape.
"Get your head back down there," she growls, "or I'll kill you."
Ah. Still the same old Phasma.
"Are you okay?"
"Didn't think it could feel like that," she says, mopping at her face with the back of her hand. "Didn't think anything could."
The curve of his smile is wicked and knowing. "You're going to love the rest," he assures her.
And she does.
"You're a fucking idiot. Just mate with him. He wants you, you want him -- why don't you just get into bed with him? It's easy. I'll show you how. You just crawl up like that, whap your genitalia out and agitate it like so. And then -- are you listening? -- he'll do the same, and then you can have babies or whatever it is you do. Are you listening to me? You dumb motherfucker, just go and have sex with him already."
"Sorry BB-8," says Finn, resuming polishing his boots. "I don't speak droid."
The little ball withdraws his taser and somehow conveys a glower.
"I fucking hate you, coat-stealing cock-blocking whore. Have sex with my master!"
"You're very cute when you beep," Finn says happily, oblivious. "Wonder where Poe is?"
BB-8 is beginning to realise why R2-D2 shut down for so long.